


closer

by zetaophiuchi (ryuujitsu)



Series: let the plot die [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dubious Consent, Evil Space Gays, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Inappropriate Use of a TIE Silencer, M/M, Moderately More Appropriate Use of the Force, Okay Not Really, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slight feels, Tight Spaces, but close enough, keepinghimclose, let the plot die, real close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 04:22:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14464935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu/pseuds/zetaophiuchi
Summary: “You want me, General Hux,” Ren says. “Youneed—”“Bantha shit,” Hux interrupts, in a gasp. His mouth feels empty. He rocks back and forth in helpless, shuddering movements, each thrust grinding against Ren’s belly, the stiff and gleaming expanse of his belt. Desperate, Ren called him, and he is, he is.





	closer

**Author's Note:**

> This is, I fear, not very good, but I got tired of writing it. 
> 
> Also:
> 
>   * the sliver of skin between glove and sleeve—good shit good shit
>   * Hux risking life and limb to get the last word in
>   * I don’t actually see a harness in clips of Kylo’s TIE-fighting, but I feel like you need _something_ belting you in while you’re corkscrewing through a space dogfight
> 

> 
> As usual, let us blame [@FLWhite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite) for the encouragement (and inspiration). Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Armitage Hux can’t remember how to breathe. The mess on Crait—yes, the _mess_ , he snarls to himself and to anyone who may be listening in, the _shitstorm_ , a riot of empty noise, a stunning display of imbecility, an _embarrassment_ , hardly worthy of being called a battle—the mess has blown his wits to the four quadrants. He doesn’t dare think about what came before, beneath the burning red banners, being squeezed so tightly he was certain his teeth would crack in his skull, lungs bursting—

 

Still bursting. He exhales, runs both hands over his hair, neatening, and drags another breath through the ache. Unseen in the jagged darkness of the Finalizer’s hangar, he watches Kylo Ren pop the hatch of his TIE Silencer with the merest twitch of his fingers and slide inside, the movement uncannily swift and smooth, for all his bulk.

 

And there he sits, a monstrous shadow behind a red screen. He seems to be performing a pre-flight check:  another incongruity. He hasn’t yet shut the hatch.

 

 _Let him go_ , Hux thinks, _let him go, the bastard, the_ bastard, and then he thinks of the Empire, of Snoke in two pieces amid the ash, the fine golden robes seared to crackling blackness, and Phasma lost to the pit, and his throat tightens.

 

He boosts himself onto the black body of the fighter with a clang. Ren doesn’t turn away from the controls just yet, but he straightens, draws back his shoulders—or tries to—how silly of them, Hux thinks, to build a custom fighter without considering the size of its pilot—

 

“General,” Ren says. His voice is hoarse. He looks up at Hux through the hatch—novel, too, that—his gaze dark, his mouth surly. His face is blistered white by the salt of Crait, and the rims of his eyes are red beneath its funereal pallor.

 

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Hux demands. _His_ voice is hoarse, too, for obvious reasons.

 

“Out,” Ren says.

 

“Out,” Hux repeats.

 

“That’s right,” Ren says.

 

Hux throws both arms wide at the ravaged hangar around them, at the bridge, melted, still spitting sparks; at the floor, broken and buckled, projecting upward as though forced by seismic activity; at the white pieces of armor and, here and there amid the fragments, torn and pathetic, the bodies of his soldiers.

 

“Out?” he says again. “Yes,” he says, “oh, yes, you’ll get out, Ren. You’ll get out of that fighter, get out—this very instant—”

 

He remembers, in a flash of disorienting terror, the vise around his neck. His lungs burn within him. He ends in a gasp. “Supreme Leader—”

 

The vise does not tighten. Ren only looks at him, dark and worn.

 

“I won’t be gone long,” he says, while Hux shivers above him. “I suggest you dismount now, General Hux,” he adds, slowly, “unless you’d like to join me for a very— _short_ —leg of the journey.”

 

“You can’t leave,” Hux says. “For a cycle, for a _second_ , for any length of time. Have you lost your mind? Morale—”

 

“Get off my ship,” Ren says. He turns back to the flight computer. “I won’t tell you again.”

 

Hux gapes down at him, at his huge body hunched in the dim red light of the screens. Ren’s skin is pale beneath the salt dust of Crait, which has seeped into the creases of his lips. Bloodless. _Gutless_ , Hux realizes, starting to shiver again, in pop-eyed rage and disbelief. He’s seen this look before, on the cornered enemy, blaster spent, on the sagging diplomat, swaying on shifting ground, each of them ready to beg for their lives, ready to agree to every single one of Hux’s terms.

 

“You’re running away,” Hux says, and Ren’s head snaps up, and he stares at Hux with black eyes.

 

“General,” he says, a warning.

 

“You, you—” Hux stammers, gulps, breathes. His rebel-bitten fingers throb inside their glove. He squeezes them into a fist. “You’re deserting,” he says. “You’re _afraid_ —”

 

Ren swells before his eyes, struggling against his harness, snarling and shouting. Hux’s throat begins to close, the pain and pressure rising like a dark tide to choke him. It doesn’t matter. He bears down, plants his feet. Stars, if it kills him, he’ll have this, he’ll speak his truth, strip Ren down to his cowardly, faltering bones—

 

“Traitor,” Hux whispers, and the air roars as Ren drags him down.

 

 

 

It’s a short distance from hatch to cockpit, but Ren manages to smash him into every jutting instrument and reader along the way. His vision recedes with a low rushing hum; then comes the old, tired, hateful sensation of being pinned to the ground, of being flattened—

 

Extinguished—

 

Hux opens his eyes to lights flashing in sickly sequences of red and yellow, apparently in time with the rattling, foaming breath in his lungs. He takes a quick inventory, wiggling his tongue across his teeth:  no bones broken, no teeth lost. Good.

 

He turns his head to spit and stops.

 

Just beyond the black mass of the pilot’s seat, the wreckage of the _Finalizer_ floats before his eyes, pale and cold in the void of space. He swallows.

 

 _What have you_ —

 

“—done,” he says, faint.

 

At first, there is no response, no reaction, just glimmering starlit silence in the cockpit, and Hux panics, thinking he has been set adrift in this Silencer like a corpse in a coffin. A heartbeat later, the pilot’s seat shifts, and Ren turns to look at him, his face in shadow.

 

“What does it look like?” he says.

 

 _A hostage situation_ , Hux thinks. His blaster is at his belt, his knife in his sleeve, and he doesn’t have the room to draw either.

 

“Another of your wretched tantrums,” he says, raw, and wonders whether Ren will crush his trachea. He waits, but Ren does nothing. So he hurries on. “And if not that, then outright rebellion. You can see for yourself that the fleet is in shambles. You’ve cut the head from High Command at a moment of vital need. If you aren’t trying to bring us to our knees, then take us back.”

 

“General,” Ren says, “that’s enough.”

 

“Takes us back _immediately_ ,” Hux insists. “This isn’t the time for a karking space jaunt. We need to _rebuild_. We need to—” he falters as Ren shifts “—we need—”

 

Ren slouches down. Something about his silence seems sulky. His shadow is malformed, blurring into nothingness:  a hole where there should sit a man. Gutless, Hux thinks again; Ren is an amalgamation of lacks:  bloodless, gutless, shapeless, spineless.

 

“Coward,” Hux says, “traitor, sit up when I speak to—”

 

His breath shrivels in his throat as Ren lunges toward him.

 

“ _Enough_ ,” Ren bites out, hand outstretched, and then he falls back in his seat. Hux, in a flash, recalls the hangar, the same aborted movement. Ren’s harness has _jammed_.

 

It’s all the opening Hux needs. He rockets upright, instantly discounting the blaster as too dangerous for close quarters. His blade shoots into his palm, warm and sturdy. Ren’s throat is luminous above its collar. Hux leaps.

 

Ren backhands the controls, and the universe turns on its head, stars cycling.

 

Hux, weightless as they spin and spin and spin, stares at the debris crumbling away from the _Finalizer_ ’s hangar like the spiraling arms of a faraway galaxy—and circled in their embrace is Ren, no longer fumbling at the straps across his waistcoat, his eyes like black pits while the distant starlight turns sharp and white on the clench of his jaw—

 

Ren twists the controls with an aberrant precision; the starcycle reverses. Hux slams into the console. Dozens of indicators go haywire beneath him, lighting him up in bursts of color as he rolls across one screen to the next, jostling toggle-slides, toggling levers. The fighter tilts and powers upward with a booming reverberation, and he starts to fall.

 

He splits his lip between Ren’s shoulder and his own teeth, and then Ren’s arms close around him:  the vise writ large. His ribs creak.

 

“So even the great General Hux will dirty his hands,” Ren says, and his voice vibrates against Hux’s chest, “or try to.” His uniform, crusted with the salt of Crait, scores and stings Hux’s lips. “Who’s the traitor now?”

 

“Kriff you,” Hux gasps, goaded again into obscenity.

 

“I’m not running away,” Ren says.

 

Hux does spit, this time, inelegantly, blood and saliva trailing down the side of his mouth. “Then you’re mad,” he says, and repeats it, “ _mad_.”

 

“I just need a little time,” Ren says. The Silencer shudders, still boosting upward in its deranged vertical trajectory and generating an inescapable gravitational pull, at the center of which sits Ren like the rotten core of some dark planet. Hux’s cheek deforms, mashed against Ren’s collar. Ren’s voice vibrates in his ear. “To clear my head.”

 

“Clear it in your kriffing quarters,” Hux tries to snap. His words slur instead.

 

Ren brushes the controls; the ship levels out, for the barest of moments, and Hux reels back, ramming his spine into the console, sucking air into his lungs. His blade has vanished into the looming darkness behind the pilot’s seat. He trails his fingers toward his blaster.

 

Starlight shines on Ren’s teeth. He seems to be smiling, widely, wildly.

 

“Going to order me back at blaster point?” he says.

 

“Order you back?” Hux retorts, vicious. “Deserters are to be summarily executed.”

 

“Won’t you make an exception,” Ren says, “for your Supreme Leader?”

 

“You’re no leader,” Hux starts. His fingertips brush the grip—

 

Ren, grinning savagely, throws them into another tailspin.

 

“No leader of mine,” Hux snarls, scrabbling for the blaster grip and managing only to paw idiotically at Ren’s leg, “not like this, creeping away like a rank-and-file deserter hijacking an escape pod—worse—” he must be dribbling down Ren’s neck, and he is glad “—a miserable, frightened _beast_ —”

 

Ren’s hand closes over his and squeezes until the bones of Hux’s fingers are grinding together.

 

“—outgrown its cage—”

 

“Hux,” Ren says.

 

 _Hux_ , Hux thinks, silenced, unable to register the sound as anything more than a syllable, a breath.

 

Salt on his mouth, and a sharp pinch of teeth; it hurts like hell.

 

Ren releases him with a sigh, only to grip Hux’s skull with his two hands, thumbs stroking across his cheeks and into his hair, pulling him forward. Hux goes willingly enough, if only so he can get his fingers back on his blaster. He does, but he can’t remove it from its holster, his movements awkward and jerky, his gaberwool snagging against what seems like one hundred kriffing readers and levers, trapping his hand just behind his hip. By then, Ren is really kissing him, licking into his mouth, warm and wet. He smells like chemical smoke, acrid and overwhelming—sour ash on his breath—then the salt reek fades and Hux, being drawn ever closer, remembers the dying embers of a fire in a long-ago encampment, stirred by a lazy boot, with night and the languidness of sleep closing in. Six moons overhead and his soldiers on patrol in neat silvery lines. Ren bites at his lip. A groan curls up between their bodies.

 

Hux gives the blaster one last desperate jerk; it comes loose. His hiss of triumph trails into a sharp intake of breath as Ren drags down his collar to kiss him at the juncture of his throat and jaw, open-mouthed. His uniform rubs painfully over his bruises. Ren noses at him, scraping his cheek against Hux’s chin, then runs his tongue over the shell of Hux’s ear with a hot noisy swipe—

 

Hux drops the blaster. It falls into the crevice between the seat and the flight monitor with a muted clatter.

 

“Kriff!” he says, and shudders. “Kriff—”

 

“Hux,” Ren says again. His voice is rough. “Give in to it.”

 

“What are you doing?” Hux demands, lurching back as far as his spine will allow. “What are you _saying_?”

 

“I can sense it,” Ren says. “Your desperation.”

 

The spinning starlight glances off the saliva on Ren’s parted lips and the saber scar like a long dark gouge in his face; the rest of him remains in shadow. His body heaves beneath Hux’s with unsteady breaths.

 

Hux looks at him, blank, unmoving, the beginnings of hysteria tickling at the back of his throat. He _is_ desperate; that much is true. He’s desperate to get his hands on his kriffing blaster and send a bolt between Kylo Ren’s eyes.

 

Then Ren’s leg shifts between his straddling thighs, and he gulps.

 

“Go on,” Ren says. “Give in to it—your basest instinct. Lay your hands on me.”

 

He takes Hux’s hands, draws them up into Hux’s lap, and up further still, sliding them under his waistcoat.

 

“ _What_ ,” Hux says. Ren’s stomach is hot, hot, hot beneath his hovering fingertips; the heat of him seeps around Hux’s gloves, an oasis of bewildering softness and damp amid the cold recycled air. The undersides of Hux’s wrists brush against bare skin, and a tremor seems to run through them both.

 

“Take your gloves off,” Ren says, moving against him. “Take your—Hux—that’s an order.”

 

“No,” Hux says. “Ren, listen to me. Look at—”

 

Ren removes his gloves for him in short, irritated bursts and drops them, crumpled, to the side. His own gloves rasp against Hux’s knuckles as he squeezes Hux’s hands. They slide along Hux’s forearms, and—Hux twitches—come to rest in the small of his back.

 

“General Hux,” Ren says, holding Hux by the back of the belt, “I propose a truce.”

 

Hux manages to sneer. “Is that what they’re calling it these days— _mm_ —”

 

Ren’s mouth opens beneath his. Hux mumbles around his tongue and scrabbles at the waistcoat as Ren grips his arse and begins to push his hips up and down, back and forth, in slow, roiling movements.   

 

“Kriff,” Ren says, echoing Hux’s muttered curse, and arches.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Hux says. “Ren—”

 

“You want me, General Hux,” Ren says. “You _need_ —”

 

“Bantha shit,” Hux interrupts, in a gasp. His mouth feels empty. He longs to unfasten his trousers, to slide his prick up and down in the tight slick grip of Ren’s hand. He rocks back and forth in helpless, shuddering movements instead, each thrust grinding against Ren’s belly, the stiff and gleaming expanse of his belt. Desperate, Ren called him, and he is, he is.

 

“You looked for me,” Ren says.

 

His voice drags Hux into a black vision. Blood on the snow—a long dark strike with Ren in a heap at its end. A dim, wretched recollection, blurred with panic:  the forest was breaking apart all around them. Hux shivers. “I was obeying orders. Snoke—”

 

“Not then,” Ren says impatiently. His hands still on Hux’s hips, and Hux bites down against the noise of discontent building in his throat. “I don’t mean _then_. Today. In the hangar.”

 

“That was—” _protocol_ , he thinks, or more accurately sheer bloody stupidity. And look where it’s landed him—displaced, spiraling out into nothingness, rutting against Ren’s stomach, aching and aching. 

 

 “You don’t understand,” Ren says. “I’ll show you.”

 

“No,” Hux says, “no, wait—”

 

Ren has read his mind before; Snoke, too. Hux remembers the lancing pain across the top of his skull, moving in a red and burning path, cleaving and cauterizing gray matter. His mind invaded, his thoughts severed, darkness closing in. This is different—a red glow at the edge of his mind like a solar corona. The eclipse shifts, its shadow looming until he feels crushed by it, by a loneliness so heavy it presses tears from his eyes, the breath from his lungs.

 

“She threw it away,” Ren murmurs. “Everything we did together, everything we were going to become. She threw _me_ away.”

 

“Ren,” Hux says, distorted. “You’re hurting—Ren!”

 

“I was alone,” Ren says.

 

The pain blinds him. He breathes and breathes and breathes, and it isn’t enough.

 

“ _Ren, please_ —”

 

“But you looked for me,” Ren says. Dimly, through the red haze, Hux feels Ren’s fingers stroking his face, smearing through tears and spittle. He kisses Hux’s eyelids, tender, and the barest touch of his mouth is enough to make Hux pant with agony. “You came for me.”

 

 _I tried to cut your throat_ , Hux thinks, _I would have shot you where you lay, on the cold ground with Snoke in two halves behind you, I’d shoot you now if I could, you’re like a mad dog_ —

 

The corona flashes and fades; Hux groans in relief and sags forward.

 

Slowly, he realizes they’ve stabilized; the Silencer is no longer spiraling. Ren is rocking against him, beginning to squirm in his seat, legs falling open. He drags his hands up and down Hux’s back. Hux rolls his hips, languid, and Ren moans.

 

“Hux—”

 

An afterimage of the scavenger girl lingers behind Hux’s eyes, white and cold like a distant moon while Ren ebbs and flows, helpless beneath her influence. Hux thinks of Arkanis, of the sea and the storms.

 

He blinks:  Ren is sweating, his strange angular face screwed up in concentration, eyes lidded, lips parted.

 

Ren is balanced on a knife’s edge, on a surface far thinner, more precarious, and more brittle than any monomolecular blade. He’s trembling between Hux’s thighs, ready to be taken in hand, wielded, shattered.  

 

Ren seems to sense his stare; he looks up, intent, and Hux breathes out explosively, again and again, unable to steady himself.

 

“A truce,” he says, winded. “Yes.”

 

He forces his hands between their bodies and wrenches Ren’s harness free.

 

In the next moment he’s falling backwards, and Ren is surging against him, over him. The fighter tilts, suspends itself almost vertically; Hux slides until he strikes his head against the red panels. Ren crawls toward him, squeezing into what little room is left overhead. The sheer bulk of his body flattens Hux’s arms against the console, and the Silencer releases a sequence of shrill chimes in protest. Ren’s hands span his thighs, forcing them wider as he rubs himself against Hux, gasping with each thrust.

 

Hux grips the edge of the console, the sharp lines of it digging deep into his palms. The cockpit seems to be closing around him, Ren’s cloak draping over their bodies like nightfall. He’s shaking, or Ren is shaking him.

 

 _No!_ he thinks, in sudden searing panic; it must be the Silencer. Ren’s ruined it, damaged it with his recklessness; it’s rattling into pieces, breaking apart around them. He sees himself lifting Ren from the snow on Starkiller Base, staggering forward even as the ground falls away beneath his feet.

 

“The ship, the fighter, _Ren_ ,” Hux says, urgently, idiotically, “it’s— _oh_ —”

 

Ren’s in his head again—the panic tinges red—splaying wide across the surface of his mind before clamping down—

 

“Ren,” Hux says, or _Ren_ —

 

His breath comes unsteadily, puffing hot and damp into Ren’s shoulder. The pressure is building in his skull and in his belly. His skin feels tight and stretched, painful and almost feverish; he’s burning hot and aching, shivering under the relentless drive of Ren’s hips.

 

“Touch me,” Ren says, and the red haze deepens, “touch me, Hux, help me—”

 

The gaberwool restricts him; he struggles against it, briefly, and manages to get his hands on the backs of Ren’s thighs, just below the swell of his buttocks, feeling the muscles tensing under the thick material of his trousers.

 

Ren groans and lurches forward. His movements grow sloppy, frantic. He loses his rhythm, bracing his forearms against the console and bearing down on Hux with crushing force.

 

Hux slides his legs wider with a rustle, and Ren settles more deeply between them, moving now with short frenetic thrusts. Hux hisses:  the front of his trousers is _wet_ , beginning to cling to the damp slick at his groin, snagging and sliding, and he gasps and shudders every time Ren rocks into him and the seam drags over the head of his cock.

 

And as the red light darkens and Starkiller cracks apart in his mind, he hears his voice, a splinter come to pierce the dead air—

 

“More,” it says, torn, “ _more_ , Ren—”

 

Ren’s laugh is just as ragged, a choked off little gurgle in his throat. “That an order?” he says, sounding dazed, sounding _drunk_ , and then he bites down on Hux’s collar, tugging the material tight, his teeth scraping over Hux’s skin, and grinds against him, huge and overwhelming, and Hux cries out, moving to meet him as best as he can, pinned as he is beneath Ren’s body. But he can’t match Ren in force or stamina; Ren overcomes him, _uses_ him, as he lies there limp and exhausted, mouth wet and drooping.

 

“Give,” Hux pants, and watches the reflections of stars in the sudden widening of Ren’s black eyes, “give—oh, give it to me. I want it. I want—”

 

Ren flings himself upward abruptly, banging himself against the windows and dangling readers, fingertips digging into Hux’s jaw and pressing between his lips, stopping his speech. He kisses Hux around his own fingers, writhing against him now, and then he gasps, quick and startled and _desolate_ —

 

The snow is powder-soft as he kneels in it, nothing like his memory of jagged compacted ice, and Ren is conscious, his gaze direct and alert. Hux tries to stand, to pull Ren upright, but his limbs are heavy; he falls. Ren reaches toward him and draws his bloodied hand across Hux’s face—a mark to match Ren’s own deep wound—before rearing up to kiss him. But this is only a dream, a projection, and so he tastes like nothing, not even rust.

 

Slamming back into his body in the Silencer, he finds Ren collapsed across him, fingers dragging a wet trail down Hux’s chin, breathing noisily. He’s still moving his hips in feeble little jerks, trembling with the aftershocks, and Hux is blindingly, horrifically hard in his trousers, moaning and squirming with every soft tracing circle of movement, his spine taut with need, throbbing with it. He imagines stripping Ren down to his pants, to nothing, to press his prick to the bare skin of Ren’s hip and rub himself against the hollow until he is coming in stripes, all the while scoring Ren’s chest and stomach with his fingernails—

 

“Greedy,” Ren mumbles, and keeping Hux flat against the console with the press of his forearm, wedges his body into the chasm between seat and controls. He pulls Hux’s trousers down with the same wrenching, violent motion Hux used on the jammed harness, heedless of the buckle, and Hux squeezes the edge of the console until his palms start to sting.

 

There isn’t enough room for Ren to curve his back, to bend his head and get his mouth all the way around Hux’s cock; instead he noses at it, licks at it, rubs his cheek along the wet length of it, all while Hux gasps above him, feeling on the verge of hyperventilation.

 

“Please,” Hux says, “please, _kriff_ —”

 

Ren paws at himself, then reaches up and closes his hand around Hux, smearing and mingling wetness; Hux moans and shakes.

 

He continues to shake as Ren strokes him, clumsy at this angle, squeezing a little too tightly, thumbing a little too roughly at his slit. Hux concentrates on the friction, tries to thrust into Ren’s hand. He doesn’t want to last. He wants to come—wants it so badly that his throat is starting to constrict, the cry in his mouth dissolving into a whimper.

 

“Please,” he says again, and thinks it, too, at the red presence lurking just behind his eyes, _please, please_.

 

If their roles were reversed and it was Hux at Ren’s feet, between Ren’s legs with his hand on Ren’s cock, he would have denied him; he would have paused, played the coquette, withdrawn for a moment to extract a promise, or several—for cooperation, for obedience, for promotion, equipment, another Starkiller. But Ren seems to have none of this subtlety, no desire to press his advantage. Arrogantly, he seems to think he has no need to do so; Hux would hate him for it, _does_ hate him for it, usually, but he’s spiraling out of control now, a satellite in wild orbit.

 

Ren’s eyes are intent on Hux’s face, and as Hux keens and tries to edge closer, to rub any bit of his cock against Ren’s mouth that it can reach, Ren grins.

 

“That’s it, General,” he says, ruthless. “Give in to it. Give in to me.”

 

“Oh kriff,” Hux gasps, “oh kriff—”

 

Ren draws his hand up in a long, lazy stroke and rubs at him with the palm of his glove, pressing his cock up against his belly, and Hux arches against his hand with a sharp inhalation, the cold air burning the membranes of his nostrils—he hovers there, straining, tightening, biting his lip, breathing hard through his nose, so close, so close—

 

“Ren— _Ren_ —”

 

Ren does it again. Hux pushes against him with a fraying cry and comes between Ren’s fingers, dribbling onto his belly and the smooth black expanse of his uniform.

 

The cry lurches into a moan as Ren continues to tug at him, merciless, grasping and rubbing until Hux’s thighs shake and he claws at the console, thumping the insides of his legs against Ren’s shoulders in a vain attempt to escape the sensation. Ren strokes him until it stings, until Hux is gasping and heaving and cursing him, and then he pulls away, and Hux slumps back with a sigh.

 

Ren’s grin widens. He clambers to his feet and folds over Hux, reaching up to run his soiled fingers through Hux’s hair and lick at the corner of Hux’s mouth. Hux shudders and closes his eyes.

 

 

 

They hang in the void. Ren returns to the pilot’s seat and leans back, his posture relaxed, no longer hulking as he looks out into the darkness. Hux cranes his neck to follow his gaze:  through the sliver of canopy visible to him as he lies sluggish and fucked out atop the console, he can see the repair droids at work on the _Finalizer_ ’s hull, crawling over it like so many clari-crystalline spiders.

 

Ren bends forward, shouldering his way between Hux’s legs to program their return.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked, please [reblog](https://hallo-catfish.tumblr.com/post/173393949049/kylux-fic-through-every-forest-above-the-trees)!


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